


Stumble in the Debris

by wintergrey



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Combat, Dom/sub Undertones, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Killing, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Outage, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintergrey/pseuds/wintergrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>
    <br/>
    <b>...this is what his mama meant when she told him not to flirt with danger.</b>
    <br/>
  </i>
</p><blockquote>
  <p>Sam keeps his foot on the gas as he cuts through an intersection on the diagonal and out into a supermarket parking lot. Even the looters are gone now, nothing’s left behind but twisted carts, glittering safety glass, and ransacked cars. The near-black cloud cover above is mottled with red with light cast from fires burning into the night. Strings of purple and white lightning crawl from cloud to cloud, a low rumble of thunder brings a little hope for rain.</p>
  <p>“Head for the I-66,” Bucky orders.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Stumble in the Debris

**Author's Note:**

> Because Roane wanted Bucky/Sam and I didn't think I could do it so I thought about it until I could. Specifically not related to **Vade Mecum** or **The Blood-Dimmed Tide**.
> 
> * * *

It’s hot enough to kill tonight but Sam’s bones are made of ice, the trickle of sweat down his spine is cold with fear. Above the distant wail of sirens and the thrum of helicopters circling over DC as if it’s a war zone, the rasp of his breathing is layered with the ragged inhale and exhale of someone behind him in the dark. His right hand is inches from his gun.

“Don’t.” The voice comes before Sam knows his hand has twitched. The slide of a gun being pulled behind him sounds peculiarly hollow and he wonders if it’s the blood pounding in his ears.

“Not moving.” Sam raises both his hands to shoulder height, reviewing the position of the furniture in his living room, trying to decide what he can use as a weapon.

“Slowly. Gun out. Clip out. Clear it.” The male voice isn’t quite familiar but it should be. Sam can’t place it. “Put them in the drawer with your phone, radio, whatever you’ve got.”

“Okay.” Sam does as he’s told, tucking phone and gun and clip away in the top drawer of the small desk that mostly serves as the place where he loses his keys under mail and flyers. He puts his hands back up, slowly. No demands yet, which is not what he’d expected from someone caught robbing his place during the blackout that cloaks the entire Eastern seaboard. “Now what?”

“Turn around. Sam, right?”

Sam obeys, for all the good it does. The blackness in the apartment is as oppressive as the heat. The night is a crushing heap of black velvet crammed down his throat, wound across his eyes. It tastes like smoke and sweat and iron. Even his hearing feels strange, unreliable.

“Sam it is, though you can call me whatever you’d like right now. Did that do anything for you? I still can’t see a thing,” he quips, keeping it light. Helicopter blades shake the fabric of the night as the chopper veers toward Sam’s neighborhood.

“Let me know you’ll do what you’re told,” the man says from somewhere over by the window. He has to stop to breathe every few words. He’s hurt.

“Fair enough. I’ve had enough kicking ass today.” Sam’s hands start to tingle from holding them up. “How do we wrap this up so I can get some sleep?”

“Depends.” A white pillar of light sweeps past Sam’s building, not close enough to illuminate the room but it casts enough light that Sam catches a glimpse of a figure slumped in a chair that’s not usually back in that corner.

“On what?” Whoever it is, they’ve been here long enough to learn the apartment and move things around. Sam’s not sure if that makes things better or worse. The helicopter is overhead now, battering the air. The searchlight washes through the kitchen first, then the living room.

“Whether or not I can trust you.”

The light catches Sam full in the face but just before it leaves him seeing dancing spots against the dark, he sees the man in the corner. The silver arm and red star—no one else out of seven billion people has that arm. The Winter Soldier is slumped in a chair in Sam’s living room, too-long hair trailing across his face like the bars of a cage through which Sam glimpses the feverish glitter of his blue eyes and the grim white flash of his grin.

“You can trust me.” Sam doesn’t have to think. It takes no time to do the math—the strange pattern of interference disrupting HYDRA’s operations, the disappearance of HYDRA agents for which no one in SHIELD will take credit, and Steve… Steve’s certainty that Bucky is out there somewhere. Not just that he’s out there but that he knows himself.

“That was fast.” Bucky laughs but it cuts off in a soft noise of pain. “And you trust me?”

“I trust Steve.” Sam’s shoulders prickle as a little tension leaches out of him. Almost there. He remembers the way the gun wavered in Bucky’s right hand, the black eye of the muzzle struggling to keep a fix on him. “You gonna keep pointing that gun or do I get to help you out?”

Silence stretches out until Sam’s nerves sing like a violin, then the gun hits the coffee table.

“I’m out of bullets anyway,” Bucky says wearily. “Wouldn’t be here like this if I’d had any left.”

“I need light and my kit.” Sam still doesn’t want to make any sudden moves. Bucky doesn’t need the gun to kill him, not even in the dark. “They’re in the hall, I’m—”

“Here.” Something scrapes across the floor by Bucky’s chair. “Got you covered.”

“How much blood have you lost?” Sam feels around until he grabs his gear bag and kit, then tosses them on the couch to set up.

“Uh…” Bucky’s breath comes slower now and the last thing Sam needs is to bring Steve back a corpse. “Not much. Half a pair of jeans. Bath towel. Some of this chair cushion, I think. Sorry.”

“What’s that? Litre? Litre and a half?” Sam gets out an emergency light rod and cracks it to start the reaction inside, then throws it on the coffee table beside Bucky’s empty gun. A pale green glow slowly creeps outward to light a sphere around them. “Steve didn’t tell me you were such a big baby.”

“That’s just on the outside, asshole.” Bucky’s laugh ends in a hiss and mutter.

“It’s supposed to be on the inside.” Sam flicks on a small flashlight to do a quick examination. “Or do they do things differently in Russia?”

“Fuck you.” Bucky’s grin is still white, which is a good sign. “I broke some ribs.”

“Not sure what I’m hoping for here, high or low. From the bullet?” Sam starts his inspection, running his fingers over Bucky’s scalp, through his damp, tangled hair. He finds plaster chips, broken glass, metal shavings, twigs, and even a leaf, but no blood or softness or swelling in the scalp. Neck is drenched in sweat but sound.

“Don’t think so.” Bucky makes a face when Sam flashes the light in his eyes but he opens his mouth obediently when Sam puts a thumb against his chin.

No new blood there but tooth marks are already healing on his tongue, old blood caked in the nostrils that goes with swelling on the bridge of the nose and shadows of blood pooling under the skin below his eyes. Lacerations on both cheekbones, split lip, goose egg on the jaw that might hide a minor fracture. Pupil reaction is normal, if fast. And that’s just everything above the shoulders.

“Bullet went through on the left, under the tenth rib, out over my hip. The ribs came after,” Bucky says thoughtfully. He lets his head rest back against the chair, eyes drifting shut. “Got shot and then kicked in the face, fell out of the helicopter, landed funny on a car on the same side. Feels like a liver puncture.”

Yeah, nothing much. Just a fall out of a helicopter. Sam pockets the flashlight, he won’t need it again until he gets to the wound. Liver punctures make him cranky—still better than a kidney or a lung—but if it was really bad, Bucky’d be dead already. The blood on Bucky’s jeans is already going black as it dries. It’s been at least an hour.

“Anything else?” Sam starts setting up. Kit and bag on the coffee table, drape and pads on the couch, fluid bag on the back of the couch. He’s going to have to work out where to put the IV line in, he doesn’t want to fuck with Bucky’s gun hand. “You know, anything that might kill you if you get up.”

“If I’d known there was gonna be a quiz, I’d have studied harder.” Bucky opens his eyes to glare daggers at Sam, then holds out his right hand, left arm pressed tight against his side. “Just help me up, we’ll find out together.”

“Are you always this much of a pain or is it just when you need to make a good impression?” Sam tries to take most of his weight for the transfer to the couch but the man is damn heavy.

“I was gonna pull your braids at recess but I’m working with what I’ve got.” Bucky’s face is blanched, his expression drawn, by the time Sam gets him laid down again. His breath shakes going in and coming out and there are no smart remarks anymore.

“I need to set an IV.” Sam has no idea how he’s going to work around that left arm. He pulls out shears to cut Bucky’s shirt away, pulls the bloody rags of it away and throws them into the chair.

“Under my armpit, down a little,” Bucky gets out. “They tattooed the spots.”

It takes Sam a minute, and the flashlight, but he finds the marks tattooed in the twisted flesh growing into and through the structure that anchors the prosthetic to Bucky’s body. Looks like they ran blood vessels back toward the surface just for such an occasion. Sam doesn’t read Russian but he can tell the difference between vein and artery. The IV goes in with little trouble and Sam tapes it in place before he moves on to finding out how badly Bucky’s fucked himself up.

“How far down does the prosthetic go?” he asks as he’s following the ribs of it where they blend into Bucky’s own toward his spine and sternum. The reinforcement provides support for the arm and strengthens those ribs, but it leaves other places vulnerable because the whole ribcage doesn’t give quite the same as if it were all bone.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Bucky breathes slow and shallow, like he’s falling asleep, his cheek pillowed on his good arm curled under his head. His hair falls across his face and Sam can’t read him this way.

“Stay awake.” Sam pushes that tangled hair back and the corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks in a little smile.

“Just resting. I’m not gonna die. Wouldn’t do that to you. Just need some tape and some bullets and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Yeah, let’s hope.” Sam sets the flashlight up to cast a white circle on Bucky’s side, illuminating smooth planes of muscle under milky skin and torn, swollen flesh, clotted blood and bruises, as well as a steady trickle of blood that’s going to pick up as soon as the IV does its work. “This is gonna hurt.”

“That’ll be a refreshing change,” Bucky says easily.

“Did they breed for that level of sass where you and Steve come from?” Sam runs his fingers across a black mass of bruising—mealy, swollen, rotten-apple flesh where the clean arc of ribs under lean muscle should be—and Bucky’s breath catches.

“You’re gonna say you’ve never been to Brooklyn?”

“Once, for a party. Ready?” Sam presses down, gently, listening for the grind of bone on bone. He doesn’t have much choice. He has to know what’s moving and where. Bucky doesn’t make any noise, doesn’t even flinch, and that’s almost worse, that he can just take that much pain. There’s some movement but nothing swinging around loose in there. “Hell of a party, though. Wish I remembered more of it. All… three days of it.”

“Just three days?” Bucky’s voice is thin with stress. “They’ve gone soft since I left.”

“In fairness,” Sam says, as he gets out the kit to wash Bucky down, “It’s been about seventy years. And they haven’t had guys like you around to set a good example for how to do these things.” He rips open a gauze square, sprays Bucky down with disinfectant wash not only to clear off the blood so he can fix up that bullet hole but so the tape to stabilize Bucky’s ribs will stick.

“True.” Bucky exhales slowly as Sam cleans him off. Sam would almost call it a purr of contentment if he wasn’t washing clotted gore out of a near-century-old assassin’s wounds. “You need to see it with someone who knows how it used to be.”

The air shudders again with another pass of a helicopter. They’ve been swinging back and forth since Sam got home. This time, the light sweeps in the window again. _...fell out of the helicopter…_ Sam’s been assuming they’re police or first responders—and maybe they are, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t HYDRA. This whole blackout and ensuing chaos is all HYDRA-inflicted.

“Patching up that hole,” he says evenly. Last thing he needs is Bucky moving around while he’s spraying protein matrix into a through-and-through bullet wound. Fortunately, the stuff comes with an anaesthetic in it so while it hurts like a bitch going in—Sam hears Bucky’s teeth grind clearly—the pain doesn’t last. Sam wipes off the overflow before he patches the entry and exit.

“I love modern medicine,” Bucky says without a trace of irony.

“You’re not gonna love it in about five seconds.” Sam’s about to tape his ribs. The helicopter comes in low again. “I take it that’s your ride.”

“I changed my mind, Dad. I don’t want to go to prom with HYDRA after all.” Bucky’s tone is light but when Sam glances over, his expression is taut.

“You know I won’t have you dating boys who don’t take no for an answer,” Sam says. He tears off strips of tape with his teeth. He’s going to need to work fast. “They’re going to come in, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, they are. I’m sorry.” Bucky shifts like he’s trying to get up. “I should—”

“Don’t. Move.” Sam doesn’t mean for it to come out quite so harsh but it works, Bucky freezes. “They’ll know this is my building by now so we’re going to do this right,” he says flatly. “I’m going to tape you up so you can fight, then I’m going to give you my gun in case they’re in a hurry. You’re going to stay where I put you while I get what we need, then we’re leaving together. Clear?”

“Clear.” Bucky turns his head enough to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam can’t see anything but the kid from Brooklyn right then, tired and battered and scared. “I fucked up today,” he says simply. “I should have told you at the start but… yeah. I fucked up.”

“It’s okay.” A pat on the metal shoulder seems impersonal so Sam brushes his knuckles across Bucky’s cheek instead. “We’ll fix it.”

“I didn’t have—” Didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“You think you’re the first jackass who brought HYDRA to my door?” Sam starts taping Bucky’s ribs, ignoring Bucky’s grunt of pain. “You’re not even the first jackass from your neighbourhood to do it. I can deal.”

“I’d say Steve’s got good taste in people, but. You know. It’s improved over the years, I guess.”

Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t complain as Sam tapes him up, then helps him to sitting so Sam can finish the job. The IV bag is nearly limp, there’s no blood seeping through the patches over the bullet holes. Sam pulls out the IV, gathers up the trash. Bucky looks better already, even in the green glow of the emergency light, or he does until something scrapes down below—just a tiny sound drifting in the open window—and gets both their hackles up.

Sam gets his gun, slides the clip back in before he gives it to Bucky. There’s a bit of a breeze now, just a breath in the heat, and he realizes that his shirt is soaked in sweat. He holds a finger up. Wait here. There’s a gun safe in the bedroom now, he need to go empty it.

He’s gone through this in his head so many times, it’s a matter of minutes to pack. Pistols, shotgun, ammunition, pepper spray, goggles, mask, vest. He grabs his spare vest, T-shirt, hoodies. It’s hot but they need to stay covered and dark. Water and food and med-kit are already in other the bag.

Sam comes back out and Bucky’s sitting where Sam left him, upright, eyes closed, gun held loosely between his knees. He inclines his head slightly toward the door. Sam can’t hear anything.

“Downstairs?” Sam sets things down, puts a fresh clip in Bucky’s gun and offers it back to him along with a stack of clips. Bucky nods, opens his eyes. “Keep that gun,” Sam says. “Let’s get this on you.”

“Two down under the window,” Bucky says quietly. He lets Sam strap him into the vest and slip the hoodie on him while he tucks Sam’s gun away and spins a silencer onto his own gun. “They’re waiting on backup before they come in the front.”

“What’d you fuck up? Are they just after you?”

“Under the couch.” Bucky waits for Sam to pull out the bag. “They hit an archives site. One of those places they stash old FBI cases. I don’t know what it is but I knew they were after it. I had it on me when I went out of the helicopter.” The messenger bag has water bottles, plastic explosives and a few tangled electronics, a couple grenades and flashbangs, and a little grey box in the bottom. “Take it.”

“You open it yet?” Sam picks the box up and it’s heavy for the size, no bigger than his palm and twice as thick. It’s got the weight of something sacred.

“No. If I ever knew what it was other than important, it’s gone now. I’m trying to run down everything I else remember before it’s lost, too.” Bucky holds out a hand for Sam to help him up and Sam tucks the box away inside his vest to free his hands.

“I’ll make you a deal.” Sam braces himself to haul Bucky to his feet. “We get out of this alive, I’ll help you finish up.”

Bucky makes it to standing without wincing or pitching over once Sam’s got him upright. Bucky’s got an inch or two on Sam and a hell of a lot of pounds. If he goes down, Sam’s in trouble. Instead he just sways slightly, his sweat-locked hair and warm breath brushing Sam’s cheeks, hands still tight on Sam’s.

Then his mouth is on Sam’s, hot and certain, he lets go of Sam’s hands to cup Sam’s face instead. Now Sam’s the one who’s off balance, grabbing Bucky’s hoodie to steady himself as he tangles his other hand in Bucky’s hair to keep him close. There are boots coming down the hall and Sam can’t make himself stop, doesn’t want to be done with this—slick lips and fever-hot tongues and sweat salt and sharp teeth—ever.

“The fuck are you doing?” he breathes when Bucky pulls away. Maybe he’s asking why Bucky started but he’s mostly asking why Bucky stopped.

“For luck.” Bucky’s grin is crooked and wicked, devoid of any regret. He grabs the gear bag as well as his own and slings both across his chest. “Let’s go.” He hops the coffee table and is at the window in two strides.

Sam recovers to grab the bag with the shotgun and ammunition, pulls out one of his pistols as Bucky fires out the window twice, two soft thumps, followed by the sounds of bodies collapsing. “Balcony,” Sam orders on his way there.

“You first,” Bucky says.

It’s a fair drop but Sam’s made it before. He regains his feet in time to steady Bucky when the pain of the landing takes his breath away. Above, Sam’s front door shatters and flashbangs pop in the apartment.

“Guess that’s it for my place,” Sam murmurs as he follows Bucky across the lawn. “I hope you’ve got a clubhouse somewhere.”

“We’ve got a special knock and secret handshake and everything, Skippy.” Bucky shoots two more people as they reach the parking lot, Sam doesn’t even know for sure they’re HYDRA agents but Bucky drops them without hesitation.

“No girls allowed?” Sam asks while he’s waiting for Bucky to break into someone’s old 4x4. An oppressive blanket of low clouds is rolling across the sky over DC, blotting out the stars. A curl of a breeze tickles the back of Sam’s neck.

“That red-head’s allowed.” Bucky pops the door open. “The angry hottie in the helicopter, too.”

“Which one?” Sam gets out before he catches the outline of two figures in full gear making for them, backlit by flares tossed out on the lawn to flush them out. He holsters the pistol in favour of the shotgun. The first man goes down with a face full of shot. The second dives for the meagre cover of a narrow tree.

“Both,” Bucky says in his ear as he reaches over Sam’s shoulder to drop the second guy with a shot that Sam’s sure goes right through an eye—in the dark. Behind them, the truck is rumbling. “You drive.”

“Didn’t think you were the type to let someone else in the driver’s seat.” Sam peels out of the parking lot, following the direction Bucky indicates from his place slouched in the passenger seat. The shotgun lies between them, the bags are in the jumpseat behind. The box—whatever Bucky stole—presses against Sam’s sternum.

“Working alone was never my thing.” Bucky’s breathing is shallow and ragged, he’s not doing as well as his cockiness suggests. “Believe it or not.” Sam believes it. There’s something about the way Bucky moves that suggests he’s used to having someone at his back—or that his brain still expects it, no matter what his recent history says.

“Drink.” Sam reaches behind him and finds a water bottle in one of the bags. “You’re still down on blood.”

“Thought you said I was a big baby.” Bucky does what he’s told anyway. He points Sam off the road and across a school yard. “That way.”

Sam floors the truck right through a chainlink fence the engine growls as the truck eats its way across the baseball field. “Yeah, well, you’re my baby right now.” He comes up with a protein bar after a moment of digging in the back again. “Eat that as well.”

Sam keeps his foot on the gas as he cuts through an intersection on the diagonal and out into a supermarket parking lot. Even the looters are gone now, nothing’s left behind but twisted carts, glittering safety glass, and ransacked cars. The near-black cloud cover above is mottled with red with light cast from fires burning into the night. Strings of purple and white lightning crawl from cloud to cloud, a low rumble of thunder brings a little hope for rain.

“Head for the I-66,” Bucky orders.

Sam gets there by going the wrong way up the off ramp, around a blockade, and then they’re racing into the city on a highway that’s empty except for a few abandoned cars and empty emergency vehicles. Right now, they could be the only people in the world. The air buffeting them through the open windows feels almost cool, Sam’s skin prickles with drying sweat. Right now, there’s no tension, they’re just suspended in the limbo of being in transit.

“Could just keep going,” Bucky says quietly. He’s drowsing, seat tipped back, lashes fluttering against his cheeks when he drifts closer to sleep.

Sam doesn’t say anything—he’s afraid he’ll say, “Let’s do that.” It’s that tempting. Some of it’s the idea of leaving all this chaos behind but most of it is Bucky.

“Or not. Fuck.” Bucky winces as he puts his seat upright again. “We’re on foot again once we’re in the tunnel.”

And there it is, too soon. The tunnel’s twin mouths gape black. Sam puts on the headlights, aware that he’s giving away their position. Barely a second after they plunge into the absolute dark of the tunnel, Sam has to swerve around a lurking tractor trailer. No driver, no lights. He slows down a little to weave through the obstacle course of empty cars.

“Here.” Bucky is out and on the move—taking half the gear but leaving Sam the shotgun—before the truck has stopped. Sam cuts the engine and the headlights at once by tugging the wires under the dash, then follows. There’s a maintenance door of some kind halfway down the tunnel. Bucky works the locks on it, then pops it open. “After you.”

Sam didn’t think it was possible for things to get darker, or for the air to get thicker, than it was in the tunnel. In a narrow corridor beyond the door, the dark and humidity are compressed into a tangible blackness that clings to Sam’s skin and lags in his lungs. He’s considering pulling out a light when he steps out into nothing just as Bucky grabs him by the vest and jerks him back.

“Stairs,” he breathes in Sam’s ear. His chest is solid against Sam’s back, his breath warm on Sam’s neck.

“Could have warned me,” Sam murmurs. He can barely hear either of them over the slamming of his heart against his ribs and the rush of blood in his head.

“Forgot.” The word has the shape of a smile against Sam’s skin. “Sorry.”

“Just so you know.” Sam finds a railing to his left by touch and starts down, keeping a hand on it. “This is the worst first date I’ve ever been on.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Bucky says, without missing a beat, “it’s not the worst first date I’ve ever taken someone on.”

“Ever make it to a second date?” They reach a landing, the sound of their footfalls on the metal steps strangely loud in the silence, then a short flight of stairs down to another door.

“You’d be surprised what a well-timed bunch of flowers will get you out of.” Bucky reaches past Sam to activate the door. “I’ll see what I can do.” Sam’s pretty sure this is what his mama meant when she told him not to flirt with danger.

The door slides open to reveal a decades-old bunker—concrete walls, olive-drab bunks, a bare light bulb dangling under a metal shade. Maps are tacked to the far wall, major cities from all over the world make a showing, marked with notes scrawled in pen. A gun locker stands open with most of its weapons still remaining, ammunition and explosive crates are half-unpacked. MREs from a past war are stacked on a table next to rows of bottled water.

“You sound better.” Sam unslings his bags, then holsters his gun as he steps in. The door slides shut behind them, the locking system grinds back into place. “Let me take a look.” He turns around to find himself nose to nose with Bucky as Bucky’s dropping his gear.

“I haven’t shown you the secret handshake.” Bucky’s blue eyes glitter in the thin, white light and Sam’s not sure if it’s fever or another heat. Sam lays the back of his hand against Bucky’s throat and it’s too warm but not burning. It’s cooler in here than outside yet the air is wet and heavy on Sam’s skin, like swamp water.

“You’re not hitting on me while I’m trying to make sure you’re not bleeding to death, are you?” Sam already knows the answer to that because Bucky’s hands are on his hips and Bucky’s nuzzling his ear instead of helping Sam get his vest off so Sam can check the bandages underneath.

“You’re not telling me to stop, are you?” Bucky takes a step back to look Sam in the eye, putting space between them.

Good question. Sam thinks about this while he unfastens the velcro down the side of the vest to reveal the bandaging. It’s clean and white, pressing the tape over Bucky’s ribs gets him a grunt of displeasure but, when Sam looks up again, Bucky’s grin is brilliant and he cocks his head curiously, waiting for Sam’s answer.

“No stopping.” Saying it out loud is like unlocking Pandora’s box.

Sam tangles a hand in Bucky’s hair as he kisses him hard, wringing a soft noise of surprise out of him. He turns them around, pushes Bucky back toward the bunks while he’s undoing Bucky’s belt with his free hand. Somehow, they manage not to do worse than kick the bags in that direction on the way. The shotgun slides into the shadows under the bunks, shells roll underfoot.

“I get that secret handshake right?” Sam wants to know as he strips Bucky’s fly open.

“Almost.” Bucky grabs Sam’s wrist and guides Sam’s hand under his briefs to touch him. The shaft of his cock is like hot, damp silk over steel under Sam’s fingertips. “That’s better.” Bucky’s shoulders hit the top bunk and he stops moving, eyes on Sam’s, rosy mouth wet and beestung from Sam’s kisses.

“I think I got it.” When Sam slides his tongue over his teeth like he can still taste Bucky’s kisses there, Bucky tracks it with his eyes and bites his lower lip. Sam runs his thumb over the head of Bucky’s cock and gets a full body twitch and breath catch from him. “There we go,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” Bucky swallows hard, then gathers himself enough to strip Sam’s vest open at the shoulder. “No clothes allowed in the clubhouse. Take ‘em off before I do it myself.”

“Are these rules written down somewhere?” Sam steals a kiss while he gets out of the vest one-handed, unwilling to stop touching Bucky just yet. Having something this powerful shivering with every little stroke of his fingertips is a rush Sam could get hooked on.

“In my head.” Bucky cups Sam’s face in his hands—sleek steel and hard calluses—to kiss him so hard, Sam’s the one shivering, weak in the knees. Bucky kisses like he’s trying to write his rules into Sam with his tongue. No clothes. No questions. No secrets. No stopping.

Bucky collapses back onto the lower bunk, taking Sam down with him. Getting stripped is part wrestling match, part foreplay, tugging off their own clothes and each other’s clothes with equal haste between kisses. Sweat-sleek skin slides against sweat-sleek skin, just licks and brushes of this bared limb against that one at first and then more and more until they’re both naked and tangled on the rucked-up sheets.

Sam’s sprawled on his back, hands knotted in Bucky’s salt-crisp hair while Bucky kisses his breath out of him, Bucky’s hips caught between his thighs. They’re both filthy, grit from smoke and earth grates between their bellies, and against the sensitive skin on the inside of Sam’s arms where they’re braced on Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky kisses down his throat, all teeth as though he’s trying to steal blood as well as breath. Sam doesn’t want to let him go but then Bucky starts talking and that’s even better.

“Do you have any idea how hot you are?” Bucky punctuates it by cupping Sam’s ass with that smooth silver hand and squeezing gently. His voice is barely more than a purr but it’s so quiet down here, any sound carries. He bites one of Sam’s nipples ungently, curls his tongue across it when Sam moans with the shock of pleasure that goes right to his cock, then does it again on the other side. “I’d do today over just to get you naked again.”

“You can just ask,” Sam says unsteadily. “Asking is good.” He arches inadvertently as Bucky trails bites toward his navel, leaving sparks flying under his skin. Bucky stops moving and Sam looks down to read his face.

“I like asking.” Bucky’s pupils are wide, black wells that nearly overwhelm the cerulean bands of his irises. When Sam meets his eyes, there’s something magnetic there. He can’t look away. “I don’t get much chance to say please.” His tongue flickers against Sam’s belly, then he kisses Sam there without dropping his gaze.

“Saying yes to you is working for me right now.” God, is it ever working for Sam. The danger, HYDRA on their heels, racing through the night, going to ground, even fucking, he’d seen coming. This—the wide eyes and the playfulness and the pout—is unexpected like stepping off into the dark and finding no footing, same rush in the gut and adrenaline spike up the spine. “Can’t imagine saying no.”

Bucky slides down until his cheek brushes against Sam’s cock and makes Sam’s breath catch. Not a mistake, not with that wicked smile that’s reflected in the glitter in his eyes. Sam wants to laugh but then Bucky licks him, just a wet streak of heat over the head of his cock that makes his muscles jump instead.

“That asking?” Somehow, Sam gets his voice to cooperate. “Didn’t hear a please.”

Bucky bites his lower lip—the coyness is as unaffected and as sweet as it is surreal—and his lashes flutter against his cheeks. “Please,” he finally says.

“Can’t imagine saying no,” Sam says again. He slips one hand free of Bucky’s hair to run his thumb over Bucky’s lips. Bucky licks it, then takes it in his mouth, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. All that sensation, and the suggestion of more, makes Sam’s head spin. “You should know that Steve didn’t mention any of this.”

“He thinks the best of me.” Bucky sets his hands on either side of Sam’s hips, stretches out like a big cat, hips in the air, hair trailing over Sam’s thighs. “I’d like to keep it that way,” he adds, just before he slides that rosy mouth down Sam’s cock.

“Jesus.” Sam pulls his hands away from Bucky’s hair and covers his own face instead. Bucky knows what he’s doing, hot mouth and suction and tongue backed up by a strong, gentle hand. Sam ends up grabbing the folded blanket under his head just to hold onto something, it’s that hard to stay still—his calves and thighs and back ache with the effort it takes not to move. It’s impossible to stay quiet and he bites his tongue to stifle the noises he’s making because if he doesn’t an army could walk up on them before either of them knew anyone was there.

Sam’s so close to coming when Bucky stops sucking him off and crawls up to kiss him on the mouth. He unclenches a hand from the blanket to stroke Bucky’s hair back, the instinct to check on him overrides any impulse to complain about the absence of all that pleasure. He’s fumbling for something to say when Bucky beats him to it.

“Fuck me,” Bucky says, then nips him sharply on the lower lip. “Please.”

Christ, Sam can’t say no to that, but—his brain kicks in at the last minute and he’s reaching one hand over the edge of the bed almost before he remembers what he’s looking for. His go bag with the kit in it, there’s lube and condoms in there. Multipurpose items but they’re used as intended more often than not, though Sam hasn’t had much time for that lately.

“Please,” Bucky says again, nuzzling up under his ear. There’s a little waver in his voice that gets Sam in the chest.

“Yes,” Sam remembers to say. He finally hooks a finger in the strap of what he thinks is the right bag and drags it closer. He strokes the nape of Bucky’s neck with the other hand. “I got you, baby. Just a second.”

It’s hard enough to locate and extract the kit with Bucky kissing him. Worse when Bucky presses against him so that their erections slide together and scatter the thoughts that Sam keeps trying desperately to assemble in an appropriate order. Still, he’s had worse problems and he finally gets out what he needs, though it means pulling his mouth away from Bucky’s to tear a lube packet open with his teeth.

Bucky moves easily when Sam nudges him, rolling over on his good side. He hooks his top leg over Sam’s hip to open himself up for Sam’s slick fingers. Sam pushes himself up on an elbow so he can watch Bucky’s face as he slides his fingers in.

Bucky’s eyes widen, then he bites his lip to keep a whimper from escaping. It works, almost. He grabs Sam’s shoulder with his silver hand as though he’s trying to keep from falling. His grip is surprisingly delicate and careful, in spite of the tension in his body.

“Sam.” His voice is soft and uncertain. Sam’s never heard his name sound like another word, like ‘please’, before.

“I told you.” It’s so hard to talk calmly when Bucky’s so tight and hot around his fingers, so sweet and needy under him. Sam keeps fucking him that way, reveling in the way it makes Bucky’s breath get more ragged with every stroke. “I got you. All you have to do is ask. Tell me how you want it.”

“Knees.” As soon as Bucky says it, he’s moving and Sam has no choice but to move with him, grabbing the condom as he pushes to kneeling himself. He puts it on and slicks it with automatic movements. He’s watching Bucky, the play of muscles under his skin on either side of the bandages protecting his ribs, the tilt of his hips, the bunch of his thighs and calves. Bucky shakes his hair aside to look back over his shoulder at Sam. “Please.”

He lets Sam in so easily, like he’s surrendering to it. He relaxes with his cheek pillowed on his arm and his eyes closed so that Sam’s caught between how perfectly peaceful and sweet he looks—even unshaven and worn—and how shockingly good it is to fuck him. Sam leans over, slick hand in the sheets and the other in Bucky’s hair, to kiss his cheek.

“Ribs okay?” As much as Sam wants to really move, he needs to be sure. The last thing either of them need is to end up back where they started the night.

“Yeah. Healing.” Bucky twists a little to kiss Sam on the mouth, slow and hot like they’re lovers instead of accidental bedmates. “Fuck me hard. I want to feel it.” He tips his head down now, tugging lightly against the hand in his hair as he pushes his hips back against Sam’s. “Now.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” Sam twists his hand in Bucky’s hair tight enough to make his fingers sting as he gives Bucky what he’s asking for.

They’re good together, bodies fitting like they’re made for this, falling into a hard rhythm that feels like flying again. Neither of them is trying to be quiet this time, gasps and moans and the impacts of body on body bounce off the walls. Moving has them shining with sweat again, Sam’s attention catches briefly on his own glistening brown hands dimpling the flesh of Bucky’s milky hips, on the push of his cock into Bucky’s body.

The visual is too much on top of the sounds of their sex and the clench of Bucky’s muscles around his cock. Sam drops his hands to the mattress, his chest to Bucky’s back, to change the angle of his thrusts, getting as deep as he can. The change wrenches Sam’s name out of Bucky, then pleading. Begging.

“Make me come.” Bucky grabs at Sam’s hip to pull him deeper. “Fuck, please.”

Sam gets a hand on Bucky’s cock and his fingers are slick from the first touch. It only takes two rough strokes before Bucky goes taut under him, cursing in several languages and grinding his ass against Sam’s hips. Sam lasts a few seconds longer, then bites Bucky’s good shoulder to silence the wail that climbs up his throat as he comes.

He doesn’t remember if he’s actually seen stars from coming before but it’s that good and it lasts that long it feels like forever until he can see and hear again. Bucky’s all twitches and tremors under him so he pulls out and cleans up fast, then coaxes Bucky down to join him in a limp tangle of limbs. When they’re settled, Bucky’s head is heavy on Sam’s shoulder, that silver arm shining against the dark skin of Sam’s chest.

Lying still in the barely-cool air takes them both from swimming in sweat to coated in a slurry of salt and dirt swirled with old blood from Bucky’s injuries. In the light, Sam can see all the wounds contrasted against Bucky’s white skin in various stages of healing colours. He can differentiate between the jagged scatter of cuts from shattered glass, blood-clotted furrows of bullet grazes, and the clean arc of a slash where a knife-tip kissed the curve of Bucky’s neck above his shoulder. Then there are the bruises in myriad stages of dissipation, clear imprints of fists and boots, elbows and knees, painted in greens and yellows and purples and blacks.

Sam strokes Bucky’s hair for a long time, staring off at nothing before his gaze catches on something on the floor just in his line of sight by the bed. The little grey box. He’d forgotten about it, even when they were stripping, though now he remembers putting it there. It’s just within his reach, if he stretches. Bucky grumbles softly as he lifts his head to see what Sam’s doing.

“What do you think it is?” Sam holds it up as he turns it over to inspect it—it’s entirely without feature save for the thin line that marks where the two halves meet. “Dangerous?”

“Important. Not dangerous.” Bucky sounds distant. “The more I remember, the more I forget.” He sounds so conflicted that Sam stops investigating the box to lay a hand against his cheek, trying to soothe. “Don’t worry about me.” Bucky shifts to sit up with a grunt of discomfort. “Open it, or let me.”

Sam sits up as well, facing him. Legs crossed, knees brushing, foreheads almost touching, they both hesitate with the box in their hands before Bucky holds it so Sam can work out how to get it open. It takes a moment—the hinge is stiff—but it opens up much like a medal case.

Inside is a glass vial sealed with gold, no longer than Sam’s little finger, and in that some kind of amber liquid. There’s a folded piece of paper, too, tucked into the lid.

“Get it,” Bucky says. He’s holding the box carefully so that Sam can pull the paper out to unfold it without disturbing the vial or the liquid within.

The paper is old but the folds are still crisp as though no one has unfolded it until now. The letterhead reads S.S.R. across a shield on the breast of a stylized eagle.

“Strategic Scientific Reserve,” Bucky explains. “What was there before SHIELD—back in my time, so to speak.”

Sam smooths out the paper and holds it so that they can both read it.

> 31/07/1940  
>  Agent Foxworth,  
>  I have no one else I can trust with this but you who was once assigned to ensure my work and I were not compromised by foreign agents while on American soil. It seems appropriate that you continue that task in absentia. I therefore entrust this sample to you and beg that you place it somewhere our enemies will not readily search, in the event that all other trace of my work is lost by accident or design.  
>  May God keep you well,  
>  Abraham Erskine

Sam looks from the paper to the vial, then swallows hard. When he meets Bucky’s eyes, he finds his own thoughts mirrored there. “Is that… does this mean…”

“That would qualify as important.” Bucky’s tone is almost reverent and he sounds young—sounds his age. “You need to take it, Sam. Put the letter back.”

“You think that’s really what it is?” Sam folds up the paper with the same care he’d take for a religious relic, then tucks it back exactly as they found it. He glances up to see Bucky nod.

“No idea how complete the sample is, but yeah. I’d guess it’s the serum.” Bucky closes the box slowly, so it doesn’t snap shut. “Take it.” He holds it out in both hands, then looks Sam in the eye. “You have to take it and go. Get it to someone—Steve, whoever—now.”

“I’m going.” Sam understands the urgency but there’s something deeper under it, maybe some sense of atonement. He takes the box but gives Bucky a gentle kiss on the mouth in exchange. “Do you want me to tell them where I got it?” he asks as he swings his legs over the side of the bed so he can start getting dressed.

“Yeah.” Bucky recovers himself, rolls out of bed to start sorting his clothes out from Sam’s and getting dressed as he does. “You can tell them.” He tugs his pants up, then pauses. “At least… at least tell Steve, okay?”

“I will.” Sam gets it—he may not know everything Bucky’s feeling but he understands how important it is that Steve knows that Bucky did this for them, and nearly paid for it with his life.

“You can’t go back the way you came,” Bucky says once he’s dressed. “I’m going to draw you a map of how to get out of here. It’ll be a hell of a walk but it’ll get you out by Arlington Cemetery—you’re less likely to run into resistance there. There’s radios in the cabinet over on the wall, the batteries are still good.”

Sam goes looking and finds them, relatively modern ones. At least, modern enough that he knows how to use them. “Got one.” He tests the battery by flipping it on and off quickly and it works.

“You’ll have no trouble picking up the standard frequencies. Cell phones are going to be useless for another twenty-four hours if HYDRA has anything to say about it,” Bucky says absently as he sketches Sam’s path out for him. “You’ll be in the most danger when you go through Rosslyn, from looters and people seeking shelter. Don’t go upstairs, stay down and take the passages on the map, okay?” He looks over his shoulder, concern written in the downturn of his mouth and the tension around his eyes.

“Hey. I survived a few tours in the sandbox, man.” Sam resorts to medical tape to secure the box to his chest before he pulls his chill, damp T-shirt over it. He gives Bucky a grin as he straps his vest on.“I’ll be okay. No one’s gonna be looking for me. I’m nobody important.”

“Yeah.” A frown flickers across Bucky’s face before he turns back to his drawing. “I used to think that.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise. I don’t want to lose this.” Sam gears up, go bag repacked, guns and ammunition distributed about him where he can get it it all. He takes Bucky’s offer of an over-sized Army jacket to take advantage of all the pockets. “I’m good to go.”

“You remember what I said about the intersection at Rosslyn.” Bucky hands over the map.

“I remember. Stay down. I’ll keep low and underground as long as I can.” Sam slips the map into his vest pocket, settles the radio into place. “You’d think you were used to trying to keep some jackass out of trouble.”

That gets him a laugh. “He was worse before the serum, if you can believe it,” Bucky says.

“I believe it. But me, I just want to get back with this package.” Sam slings the go bag across his chest. “That’s all.”

“Sorry about the apartment, by the way.” Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “If I’d known…”

“Hey.” Sam holds up a hand to stop him. “You can always come to me if you need help. And I meant what I said before. You want someone to finish up that list with you, let me know. I’ll be around.”

“Okay.” Bucky crosses the room to unlock a door opposite the one by which they entered. “This is your stop,” he says, stepping back so Sam can leave.

“I won’t tell them where you are,” Sam says, in case it’s not understood.

“They’ll look anyway.” Bucky shrugs, he knows the details of his situation—no one’s happy with him except maybe Steve. And Sam. “You’ve got a long walk. I’ll be gone before anyone gets down here.”

“If I don’t see you again, don’t go undoing all my hard work. Especially quit with the—” Sam doesn’t get to finish because Bucky kisses him, backing him up against the doorframe with it. “—falling out of helicopters,” he murmurs when Bucky finally lets him go.

“Not without someone there to catch me,” Bucky says with a quirk of a smile. “See you ‘round, Sam.”

“Not if I see you first.” Sam steps into the dark beyond the door and, a second later, he’s alone in limbo. He flicks on his flashlight and starts moving. He’s got miles to go and no time to waste. The package he’s carrying has been waiting for over seventy years to fulfil its purpose.

* * *

Two days later, DC is picking up the pieces, the little band of SHIELD leftovers and hangers-on that Sam calls friends are still discovering places HYDRA hit during the blackout—places no one would have thought to look for anything of value. At least they have the serum now. And they know where Bucky is—or at least that he knows himself now and he’ll show up when he’s ready. Sam isn’t going to take anyone back to Bucky’s bolthole, even though he’s sure Bucky’s long gone.

Steve’s thrown himself headlong into restoring SHIELD’s reputation, piecing it back together. Less than forty-eight hours on the warpath and he’s making headlines. If anyone knows the power of a symbol, it’s Steve, and he’s not ready to give up on SHIELD. To him, it’s part of his legacy. Knowing Bucky’s alive and well is a shot in the arm, so to speak.

Sam misses his apartment but at least he’s safe in a new place, for now. He’s on the top floor, the twenty-second—no taking the balcony route to the ground anymore. The view is good, he can see the Potomac from here. Downside is a long elevator ride in which he’s alone with his thoughts. But at least it’s safe.

The studio apartment he’s been assigned as a safehouse has the sterility of a model home—he’s only slept here the once. It smells of heat and loneliness when he lets himself in, still air and dust boxed up and baked all day in a relentless sun. The AC is off since the whole Eastern seaboard grid is still barely maintaining enough power to keep chaos from breaking out all over again. Thunder rolls in advance of another storm front blackening the horizon. Nothing eases the heat but the rain keeps the fires in check.

Small victories. Sam drops his bag on the couch, smearing the thin layer of dust over the black leather, on his way to the kitchen. A breath of cooler air from outside touches his damp cheek. There’s a window open and he knows he closed up this morning. He draws his side arm—didn’t even think of taking it off when he walked in—before he takes a cautious look into the kitchen.

In the red light of dusk, the kitchen looks like a set for a photoshoot on the post-apocalyptic American family. The balcony doors are open, the curtains sway with a sluggish swirl of evening air creeping in. It’s all still. The bed behind Sam is undisturbed. When he turns, he can see into the bathroom—it looks clear.

The only thing out of place is something bulky set in the centre of the kitchen table. Bomb or backpack, Sam isn’t sure, until he gets closer. The shape of it resolves, almost familiar, a thing he never thought he’d see again. He holsters his gun to run his fingers over it, to be sure it’s real.

It’s a wingpack—almost identical to the one he lost. The code stamped on it is four revisions later than his old one, it’s an upgrade prototype. He’s trying to fathom where they found it, and who they could be, when that faint breeze tugs a small white note pinned to it. The writing is just legible in the dying light.

_Couldn’t find a flower shop. Pick you up at 10. —B._


End file.
